One of the first rules every writer learns is that a good character does not speak “on the nose.” When a person says something verbally, the true message and emotion can be quite different from what the person says. I have a highly trained ear for these types of surreptitious messages. When some of you, particularly the mommybloggers, were commenting on my last post about this nation’s health care problems, I could tell that, despite your well-expressed ideas, you were sending me another, more important, message,
“Neil, I wish you would dive between my quivering thighs right now.”
I understand and appreciate that sentiment. It is one of the reasons I keep blogging, despite not making a penny from this endeavor.  This is my salary for blogging. I would hate to do anything that would ruin this special relationship I have with some of my female readers.
Blogging requires TOTAL honesty, and I need to be truthful about my life, despite whatever consequences it may have on my relationships with those of the opposite sex.
Fact: You do realize that I am currently LIVING with my MOTHER, don’t you? Yes, just like that crazy guy down the block from your house or Norman Bates in Psycho. There is an epic story to be told of why I am here in Queens with my mother, but it would require an entire novel, one filled with intrigue, Russian women, Hollywood parties, intellectual New Yorkers, and Chinese gangs. Unfortunately, I have not yet finished my “book proposal” or befriended the right people.
In the past, I wrote about my mother quite often, but then a kindly male blogger friend sent me a caring email, the gist of the message being,
“Dude, stop writing about living with your mother if you ever want to get LAID again. Take it from me, no half-decent babe wants to suck your c*ck if she knows your mother made you your dinner last night, even if she does make the best pot roast in the East Coast! When I lived with my mother after I was fired from my job for jacking off in the executive bathroom, I never told one woman that I was actually living with my mother. I’m not an idiot. We would always go f*ck at her place, and I would use the excuse that we couldn’t go to my place because I was taking care of my hermit brother who had some rare illness that made him go bonkers if he saw even one strand of a woman’s hair. This worked out so well, because sometimes women, being all emotional and shit, would f*ck me twice in one night because they were so touched by me caring for my sicko family member.”
Thank you, dear male blogging friend, for your sage advice. I know you are right, but I take my role as WRITER seriously. I blog with integrity. I disclose how many freebies I get when I post my positive review of the latest Lunchables snack, so I must admit that I am living with my wonderful mother.
But things are getting to the breaking point with my mother. Within two days of her returning from her European cruise, we have see each other… well, undressed. The world didn’t end when this happened, and no Freudian nightmare was unleashed, but it was a sign from Heaven that it might be time to make a move.
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It was two days ago. My mother took a shower, and there was water flooding out of the bathroom and into the hallway. We figured it was a one time event, with the shower curtain not being closed all the way.
Later that day, I took a shower, and there was water flooding again! We could not figure out the problem, so I suggested we handle this scientifically. Perhaps there was a leak. I went into the shower, a towel around my waist, while my mother stood on the other side of the shower curtain. I took off my towel, hung it on the towel rack, and turned on the water. Tra la la, I sang some Beatles song as I showered.
Suddenly, my mother’s voice yelled out, “My god, the entire hallway is getting flooded.
I grabbed the towel from the rack, and rushed out. Water WAS leaking out of the bathroom, creating a mess. I ripped the towel from my waist and threw it onto the floor, desperately trying to soak up the water.
“What are you doing?” asked me mother. “You’re naked!”
“I’m trying to stop the flooding. What do you want me to do? Roll in the water with my towel on?”
My mother averted her eyes as I bent down to soak up the water. I wasn’t sure what the big deal was for her. She had seen me naked before.  But wait — maybe not since CHILDHOOD.  Was there some unspoken tension for a grown man to appear naked in front of his mother?
Later on, I discovered what might have troubled her, and it had very little to do with her seeing my private parts.
“You’re getting so much hair on your back!” she said as she watched Bones, her favorite new show.
So, that was it. She was not turned on by seeing a hunky young man in his prime. She was feeling old seeing her cute little baby now with back hair and gray hairs sprouting on his chest!
Just in case you are interested. the flooding in the shower was my mother’s fault.  The super came up and asked her if she had adjusted the shower head. She said she is tall and adjusted the head upwards so it would hit her entire body. This angle was good for me as well, since I am also tall. Apparently, we had adjusted the shower head at an angle too high, so the water was shooting over the top of the curtain and out under the bathroom door into the hallway.
Problem solved.
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The next part of this story will sound fake, because it will seem like too much of a coincidence, but it is absolutely true. Remember, I vowed to always be truthful, right?
The day after the shower incident, I was watching Obama’s speech on TV when our President’s charisma influenced me to go into the kitchen and make a grilled cheese sandwich. My mother was getting ready to go play mah jongg with her friends at a neighbor’s apartment. As I passed by the hallway en route to the kitchen, there was my mother — topless, putting on her bra!
“Oops,” she said, covering herself up.
“Why are you getting dressed here?” I asked.
“I was in a rush. And I didn’t like my other bra.”
I was embarrassed for both of us, but in all honesty, it wasn’t THAT big a deal. And maybe there SHOULD be a Playboy/AARP edition. Just saying.
“Now we’re even,” I said to her as I passed, referring to how she saw me naked the previous day.
